


All The Secrets

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drug Addiction, F/M, Kissing, Love, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love is one of those things no one ever had enough words for. One of those gloriously complicated, beautifully tangled things that you will never quite figure out, because it's just too much."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my LJ as a response to a Kinkmeme prompt.
> 
> Based on/inspired by U2's "Love Is Blindness", though it's not necessary to know the song for the story to make sense.

Love is one of those things no one ever had enough words for. One of those gloriously complicated, beautifully tangled things that you will never quite figure out, because it’s just too much. Too many colours, too many tastes, too many scents, too many textures and too many sounds, all bleeding into one, into blinding white light, painful to the eyes.

~*~

Love is blinding.

~*~

 

**In a crowded street.**

“John, wait,” she calls after him as he heads down the street, and he stops, watches her run to him, hair dancing in the cold wind, tangles of unpolished gold, dull beneath the winter sun.

  
She kneels down in front of him, breath fogging in the crisp air, smiling as she wraps a scarf around his neck; dark green and soft and smelling of cinnamon and home. Her cheeks are apple red and vaguely she reminds him of those angels in the pictures he saw as she adjusts the lapels of his jacket, eyes bright and sparkling.

  
She kisses the top of his head and he wipes at the spot with his sleeve, pretending to be embarrassed. She laughs and gets up, “Off you go,” and, pulling her shawl tighter around her, watches him disappear with the other children.

  
He looks back once, twice, catches a flash of gold dancing in the wind amidst the people milling about, and calls “I love you.”

  
“I love you too,” comes the answering call and he only just hears it before skidding around the corner.

~*~

 

**That almost makes sense.**

He doesn’t have very many friends and the ones he does are quite dull. He spends a lot of time with his older brother, because Mycroft isn’t dull. Mycroft explains things to him, teaches him things, and, most of all, Mycroft doesn’t make fun of him.

  
They sneak out into the garden one night to look at the stars. He likes the stars, especially the shooting stars. He wonders what it is that makes them fall from the sky. Mycroft tells him about constellations and planets and supernovas, exploding stars.

  
“What is a supernova?” he asks Mycroft, “Do the stars die when they explode?”

  
Mycroft smiles, “No, Sherlock, the stars don’t die. They just…reproduce.”

  
“Reproduce? How?”

  
“You see, everything is made from the dust of stars; even you and me. Something new is created when a star explodes.”

  
He watches a moth flutter past, fragile wings shining silver in the moonlight.

~*~

  


 

  


**No call and no warning.**

He has no warning before it happens. It just hits him, the blow sudden and hard, knocking the wind out of him, taking his breath away. He just looks at Holmes over the rim of his teacup one morning and Holmes grins at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he’s in over his head. Or maybe he already was in over his head and only now realized it.

  
Either way, he chokes on his tea and Holmes is up in an instant to pat his back as he coughs and wheezes, frantically pulling air into his burning lungs. He wipes the tears from his cheeks once the coughs have subsided, a blush spreading down his neck when Holmes’ hand stays on his back, rubbing gently.

  
He clears his throat, croaks out “thank you” and looks up at Holmes, smiling tentatively. Holmes smiles back, warm and genuine, cups his cheek and, without warning, presses a kiss to his lips.

  
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, but cups the back of Holmes’ head, pulling him closer. Holmes drags his tongue across his lower lip, gently probing, asking for permission. And he parts his lips, lets Holmes tangle their tongues, lick at the roof of his mouth, tasting of toast and jam and tea with too much cream.

  
It is sudden and shocking and utterly beautiful.

~*~

Love is blind.

~*~

 

**Drowning in a deep well.**

She is dangerous, that much he knows. He doesn’t fear her, but neither does he underestimate her. There is a darkness about her, as if the very night was wrapped around her. She is untameable, untouchable, slipping through his fingers like cold sand, salty water, fine silk.

  
She is a riptide, pulling him under, pulling him into the darkness of the icy water. Up or down, down or up, left or right, right or wrong; he’s not sure which is which anymore when saltwater fills his lungs and burns.

  
She is like the sea; raging, unpredictable, merciless. Pearls and silver tinkle in her pockets and it only takes a look, a tilt of the head, a crook of the finger, and he is drawn to her. He answers her every beck and call, kohl-rimmed eyes holding him prisoner, scarlet lips distracting him, slowly spinning hair hypnotising him.

  
Sometimes he thinks she is made of stardust, when she stands there, glowing and fluorescent in the moonlight, cuts and scars dark constellations on her pale skin.

  
He wonders if one day she will burst into a million pieces. If he will go blind, watching a supernova.

~*~

 

**Clockworks and cold steel.**

Holmes is calculating these days. Watching Watson’s every step, cataloguing every tilt of the head, every word, every smile, analyzing them, dissecting them, separating their components until all that is left are the shards of what-once-was.

  
Holmes’ smiles become rare and rarer still, at least the genuine ones, and dark circles settle beneath his eyes, darkening with every smile Watson gives Mary. Holmes’ shoulders are tense and his brow is creased and he doesn’t laugh with Watson anymore, frowns instead, eyes cold and inscrutable. Watson calls him on it once, asks if Holmes doesn’t love him anymore.

  
The only response he gets are a sad, tremulous smile and “You’ll only get hurt.”

  
The explosion isn’t Holmes’ fault, yet the gut-wrenching guilt is still written across his face. The gears in his head are working furiously, wheels turning impossibly fast, making his blood rush in his ears and his temples throb.

  
He feigns detachment when Watson comes out of surgery. “I’m glad you’re alive, old boy.” And patting Watson’s leg, he leaves, nodding curtly at Mary, her eyes red and her nose running.

  
That night Holmes curls up in front of the fireplace, flames hot and licking at his skin, but he feels cold, so very cold. That night he knows the seven per-cent solution will only make it worse and takes it anyway. That night he shivers and gasps, acidic tears running down his cheeks, trying to whisper “Watson”, but choking on the vowels, gagging around the consonants.

  
That night he lets Watson go.

~*~

 

**A little death without mourning.**

Holmes’ death is sudden and somewhat surreal. To say it shatters Watson into a million pieces would be an understatement. It tears him apart, rips his heart to pieces, leaving a pile of shredded flesh and muscle behind, dripping sticky blood and quickly turning cold.

  
Watson’s hands shake when he receives a letter addressed to Holmes, his breath hitches when he automatically pours two cups of tea, he chokes when he buries his face in one of Holmes’ shirts, smelling vaguely of tobacco and chemicals and evenings in the sitting room, the fire crackling and the rain pounding against the window.

  
But for all his sadness, for all the sorrow and the pain, Watson does not mourn or grieve.

  
He despairs.

~*~

Love is blindness.

~*~

 

**Blow out the candle.**

He doesn’t look at her during the funeral, if one can even call it a funeral with no body to bury and a group of mismatched people, lords and ladies and beggars and thieves and half of Scotland Yard and a sobbing Mrs. Hudson, sitting in the church. He doesn’t look at her and he doesn’t take her hand when she offers it to him, pretends not to notice instead.

  
He doesn’t look at her and he doesn’t see her and he doesn’t hear what Lestrade is saying, his voice faltering. All he hears is her coughing.

  
She coughs and coughs and coughs.

  
And coughs again.

  
And still he doesn’t look at her and he doesn’t see the first signs, perhaps doesn’t even want to see them.

  
And so Mary coughs and coughs and coughs.

  
Until she doesn’t cough anymore.

~*~

 

**Fingers too numb to feel.**

There is no warmth left in the sun for him. The days pass in a blur of faceless, nameless people and Lestrade squeezing his shoulder with a pitying expression and Mrs. Hudson cooking his favourite dishes. Food and wine are tasteless and stale, his smiles are forced and his laughter empty and the opera makes his chest tighten.

  
He feels nothing, nothing except loss and emptiness and yearning.

  
And then Holmes comes back. He almost believes him to be a figment of his imagination, a hallucination conjured up by his mind, finally gone mad. But he’s not. Because Holmes is warm and alive and there under his fingers and his heart is beating beneath Watson’s palm and he smells of tobacco and chemicals and his lips stretch in an impossibly happy grin, tasting of faraway and home and finally.

  
Watson holds on to Holmes, never lets go, never stops touching him. He needs to feel Holmes, is afraid of letting go, lest he should vanish into thin air. And Holmes grounds him and finally, finally he can feel something again, even if it is pain and anger and hatred.

  
He doesn’t tell Holmes how much he hates him, cannot tell him, because Holmes is all he has left.

  
And after all, he hates Holmes no more than he hates himself.

~*~

 

**The knot is slipping.**

He looks at Watson, but he doesn’t see him anymore, chooses not to see him. Because all he sees in his eyes is sorrow and pain and resentment, even as his lips whisper “I love you” against Holmes’ skin. He chooses to hear only what he wants to hear, see only what he wants to see and ignores all else.

  
And Watson chooses to do the same.

  
They build a life on cracked pillars made of what-once-was and what-should-have-been and close their eyes before what-really-was.

  
And with the night wrapped around them and the moonlight casting odd shadows over Watson’s skin and the stars bursting in Holmes’ eyes, they can almost believe that their love is pure and perfect and whole.

  
They are almost happy.

~*~

Love is many things, but rarely pure.


End file.
